


Eager

by adleresque



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alley Sex, Case Fic, crimescene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adleresque/pseuds/adleresque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Something happened. The borough of Hackney, London fields. You need me." he bit a lip and held the newspaper, low in his lap now, disinterested in the words and interested in the inspector. "Desperately, this time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eager

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous: "John and sherlock teasing and touching eachother all day on a case until it gets to be too much so they find an alley and john fucks sherlock against the wall, just barely finishing before lestrade comes around the corner to investigate all the noise"  
> I couldn't help but fic it. It was late, and I wasn't tired, so I decided to write. This isn't even reviewed, and isn't beta'd.

It was a lazy morning at Baker Street, the city's low buzz distantly filling the air from beyond 221B's windows.  
Sherlock had woken up early for a change, and John followed soon after, making himself a cup of coffee. "Want some?" he'd asked Sherlock, and Sherlock couldn't bother to open his mouth. A nose scrunch and a blink was the only reply John was getting, so he walks back into the kitchen with a sigh and searches for a snack in the fridge.  
It was around eight thirty when Lestrade comes in, rushing through the door, his shoes wet and muddy, his coat raggedy and his hair slicked back, eyes heavy with worry, but that look on his face was nothing but the usual.  
It's all Sherlock needs to know exactly what was on Lestrade's mind before he even opened his dry mouth.  
It's all Sherlock needs to know there's been a murder, going by the state of his coat it wasn't raining but it was foggy, and it was damp and hot, because his hands were wet and sweaty with what smelled like flower pollen and honey, and he'd slicked his hair back in a hurry to get to the car (we all know what the East London wind does to a suave and vain gentleman, Sherlock thinks and couldn't help a smirk), and the mud, quite wet, too liquid to be from the Park and too dense to be from the West of London, so East Fields it is. The dry mouth is more than enough to know he'd been smoking, even despite the two-day patch on his arm.  
Sherlock knows all of this, but says very little.  
"Something happened. The borough of Hackney, London fields. You need me." he bit a lip and held the newspaper, low in his lap now, disinterested in the words and interested in the inspector. "Desperately, this time."  
Lestrade sighed and the way his shoulders fell down off-synch with his chest was all Sherlock needed in order to know the man hadn't been sleeping well for the past two weeks and a half, and the untanned ring line on his left hand spoke a little too much than Sherlock needed to know.  
"Will you come?"  
Closing the newspaper and jumping to his feet, Sherlock shot up a smile at him and a dangerous glance from under thick eyebrows. "You can bet your marriage I am."  
Suddenly his dynamic stumbled and he stopped in the middle of the living room, only making the half of his way to the coat hanger from where the Belstaff was smiling. "No, wait, don't do that. That's a stupid analogy. Your marriage's bound to die."  
Lestrade expects his stomach to drop, but it doesn't, and he drives John and Sherlock to the crime scene.  
It's a dead woman and a dead man, presumably what Anderson thought seemed to be a couple, but he was wrong.  
Sherlock passed the yellow police line and held it above John and Lestrade's heads as they followed him down the hills, green and fresh, and into the mortifying silence of Nature.  
Sherlock asks for the forensic team to back away for seven minutes (more than I need, he thinks), and they do, "Your wish is my command" Lestrade says with crossed arms and an exhausted forehead, the man can't even furrow his brow, that's how broken he is.  
"Alright, let them come back in." Sherlock says and they do, a flock of people in sanitized costumes, picking at skin and teeth and torn flesh. Sherlock already has all the answers, but he decides to bullshit his way around today, because he's bored and there's a rather delicious doctor that's been giving him glances all morning, even after he scoffed at him numerous times in the morning and last night when they were laying in bed. So he lets them do their magic and takes twenty steps back from the crime scene and from London and takes John by the arm, glove-coated fingers grazing only gently two layers of fabric, one leather and one silk, and Sherlock wonders why he hadn't noticed John's silk shirt, but he dismisses it and blames it on the glass of Amaretto he had last night.  
John isn't surprised by the touch, but he looks up, eyes squinted because of the sun, eyebrows furrowed and heart already racing. Their gazes meet, and they can't even smile, that's how electric the charge between them is.  
"Alright, I'll need to look around some more" Sherlock says, the first half of the sentence as he watches John, eyes locked on the prey, the rest mumbled loudly as he moves his gaze away and walks toward the other end of the alley, his shoulder gently, but still powerfully, a perfect mix of the two, bumped into John's. 'We're not bloody teenagers' John thinks, but he likes it and follows Sherlock as he stands by the lamp post, scratching the surface of the cobble beneath their feet.  
Sherlock is crouching now, and John is standing over him and John asks something, something about the case, and Sherlock looks up and it's suddenly a bit too vulgar, the way he's kneeling in his feet, the focus on his face, looking up, as if John was his master.  
'Fuck.' is all John can think, and he repeats it in his head a few times, but it doesn't help, and the more he curses the more Sherlock senses his comfortable unease, and Sherlock jolts up, breath hitching as they stand a little bit too close, John's bad shoulder leaning onto the lamp post beside them.  
The alleyway not ten meters away is tempting, oh so tempting, and when Sherlock's hot breath falls on John's neck is when it's all settles. John's fingers are fisting the coat, and nobody even notices they're running off like horny teenagers too impatient for the next shag, because everybody on the scene is an idiot. They rush to the alley, feet falling heavy on the ground, and they make a small turn to where it's a bit shadowy because of the dense tree crowns above them, and John shoves Sherlock up the wall of cold cement and presses hot lips against hot lips, eager, euphoric, mad. Adrenalin rushing through his body, something he can't explain, 'why am I fucking aroused just by his fucking existence' John thinks and doesn't know the answer, but he doesn't really care, because there's a tongue caressing his own and sinking into the warmth of his mouth.  
"Alright, enough" John breathes, lungs heavy, heart pounding and cock pulsing, and he grabs him by the coat and turns him around, pushing him up against the wall one more time, this time harder. He murmurs some command, voice raw and rough, and after a second Sherlock does something and his pants are pooling at his ankles. Undoing his own trousers, John realizes he can't think straight, so he places a wet, open mouthed kiss over the exposed neck beneath those tar-black curls and devours the pale skin before he tears his lips from it and buries his nose in the space between his shoulder and the nape of his neck. Two of John's fingers travel around the lean body in front of him and test the entrance of his mouth. Sherlock licks and it drives John insane how he's willing to obey to the slightest touch. A minute later he's working those fingers inside Sherlock, breaths of both hitching, bodies aching for more. John's erection is hurting, so it Sherlock's, and he pushes himself in slowly before resorting to a quicker pace. Sherlock mouths an "O" after he gasps, him and John both suddenly aware of how risky this was, and neither of them really caring.  
John feels Sherlock's pulse and he buries his face deeper into the dark curls of his hair, and inhales without letting his breath go, as his hips moved swiftly.  
It's an explosion of nerve cells in Sherlock's brain, and a firework parade behind John's closed eyes.  
Sherlock moans louder than he should, and John manages a sad little sound, a quiet "Sh-" ghosting over Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock knows it's not a sign to shut up but a call of his own name, and he can't help but smirk as John pushes him up the wall with each thrust.  
They're both close, and there are distant sounds of people talking, and it's distracting but not enough to take away the pleasure of it all, and John's moves grow erratic, so do Sherlock's, and they're both riding out their bliss just as Lestrade's voice raises.  
John furrows his eyebrows, concentrated, and he comes with a husky grunt just as he hears his name being called out - the one voice is Greg, who's voice is now a shout, and the other voice is Sherlock's breathing, nearly wheezing, who trembles beneath him.  
Before he even pulls himself out of Sherlock, Lestrade walks around the corner and sees it all, two crime scenes in one day is enough to drive a man insane, so his question hangs in mid-air, unfinished, unlike John's job which is done, and Lestrade holds back a curse and makes his way back to the murder scene, because he'd much rather a mutual suicide than seeing two of his mates rutting each other like animals, sex-crazed and knowing no limits.  
Sherlock and John don't know if they should panic or laugh, so they resort to the latter as adrenalin fills their hearts once more, and it's a laugh that's more sincere than any other they're ever had, and they clean themselves up and share a long kiss before going back to the herd of idiots sprawled like flies around food, the herd of idiots who knew nothing, and to the sore thumb that was Lestrade among them, who ended up looking more confused than he was half an hour ago.


End file.
